Now Bryson had to figure out the logistics of removing Fletcher. Marching him up the stairs and through the crowded dance floor was not a viable option. Too many things could go wrong.
Noah returned with Watts and handed Bryson a key.
'Is there a separate, more private exit for your members?' Bryson asked.
'I was going to suggest using our elevator. It's next to room thirty-three. It will take you up to the main floor and out a private door that leads to the back of the club.'
'You're talking about the alleyway.'
'Yes. Our members value their privacy, as I'm sure you can understand.'
'We'll be very discreet, I promise. This room you're taking us to, are there any other doors in there?'
'No sir, just the single door which leads into the hallway.'
'What about cameras? Do you have anyone watching this level?'
'Certainly not,' Noah said. 'Security cameras would be a violation of our members' privacy.'
Bryson talked to Lang through the lapel mike. Lang didn't respond. I must be too far underground, Bryson thought. The walls are blocking the signal.
He had better luck with the cell phone. The signal was weak but it would do. He told Lang where he was.
'Repeat that?' Lang said.
'We're going to bring Fletcher out through the alley. Move everyone into position. If you don't hear back from me within twenty minutes, storm the club.'
What to do with the bald man? Bryson didn't want to leave him here. He might call management. He might bring additional security. He could do any number of things to protect his job. Bryson wanted to play this nice and quiet.
'Lead the way.'
Noah escorted them into a hallway of white tile and dim lighting designed to hide faces. There was a steamy reek of chlorine from the bathhouse. Murmured conversations and moaning from behind each of the closed doors. From a room far down the hallway, a man screamed in either pain or ecstasy, maybe a combination of both.
Noah stopped in front of room 33. Grunting came from the room across the hall. The door had a mesh grating in it. Darkness in there but Bryson could make out the shape of a man. He was tied down to a table and wore a leather mask.
'Harder,' the man cried. 'Harder.'
A woman laughed.
Bryson removed his handgun and listened at room 33. He heard running water. He motioned for Noah to step closer.
'Is there a shower in this room?' Bryson whispered.
'Each room has its own bathroom.'
'Where is it?'
'When you open the door, it will be to your left.'
'Locks?'
'Yes, each bathroom door has a lock. I don't have a key. If you'd like additional help, I could call security.'
'No. Please step back. Stay right here.'
Noah moved against the far wall, looking as though he might faint. Bryson turned to Watts.
'I'll go in first and you'll cover me. If he makes a move, take him down.'
Watts nodded, sweat dripping down his face. The hallway was uncomfortably humid from the steam. Bryson slipped the key inside the lock and held his breath for a moment before turning the handle. Don't throw the door open. If it banged against the wall, the sound would alert Fletcher, might give him enough time to reach for his gun. Okay… now.
56
Snapshots in the candlelight – a massage table in the corner, clothes piled on a fabric-covered bench, the assortment of toys, handcuffs and bottles of lotion lying on a shelf next to folded towels.
Clear. Bryson turned to the bathroom, the light on, relieved to see the door was cracked open. He threw his shoulder into the door and rushed into the thick steam. Clear. Watts moved past him and yanked the shower curtain aside.
The showerhead was running hot, steam everywhere, but nobody was standing under the water.
On the floor was a metal canister shaped like a soda can only it had the kind of handle and pin seen on a grenade. Underneath the pounding water Bryson heard a hissing sound.
From the bathroom doorway came a muzzle flash. Watts was hit in the back. He fell inside the shower as Bryson turned around to fire – a second flash and Bryson felt a force like a hot, metal fist slam into his stomach.
Bryson fell against the bathroom wall, gasping for air, saw the third flash from the doorway and the fist hit him again high in the chest as he tripped over Watts and crashed sideways into the shower stall.
Bryson's heart was pounding but his lungs felt as though they had shut off. He couldn't breathe. The gun was still gripped in his hand. Gasping for air, he brought the gun up, about to fire into the steam when a black-gloved hand gripped his wrist and twisted, snap. Bryson tried to scream but no sound came out. The Beretta fell. He tried to reach for it. The fabric of a pair of black pants whisked past his face and a foot kicked him in the stomach.
He threw up his coffee and parts of a bagel. A boot pressed his face against the shower floor. His arms were yanked behind his back, his fists bound with what felt like Flexicuffs. Bryson felt the plastic biting his skin, his eyes on the canister lying sideways on the floor, hissing.
Next his ankles were bound and then the gloved hand ripped the lapel mike from his coat. The hands grabbed him by the hair. Bryson felt a needle plunge into his neck. He tried to pull away, couldn't, felt a long, slow burn and then he was tossed out of the shower stall and onto the bathroom floor.
Bryson lay on his side, every muscle in his body straining as he dry heaved. Something was wrong. His eyes were burning and he felt another wave of nausea running wild through his stomach.
Fletcher dragged him into the adjoining room. Watts lay on the shower floor, hogtied by Flexicuffs, the water spraying his bloody face as he threw up onto the floor.
A fire alarm sounded. Fletcher shut the bathroom door and dragged Bryson across the floor, the carpet burning his cheek as he kept dry-heaving. Then the burning stopped and his face was lying against the cool tile in the hallway. Men and women in towels and bathrobes were standing around to see what the commotion was.
A small, cylindrical object trailing thick grey smoke rolled down the hallway. A hissing sound behind him and then Bryson saw the same canister from the bathroom rolling across the floor as he was dragged into an elevator.
A whine of the motor and the clank of gears as the elevator lifted. Timothy Bryson lay on his stomach on the elevator floor of dirt and grime. He turned onto his side, dry-heaving, and looked down at his stomach. No blood.
That didn't make sense. He had seen the muzzle flash, had felt the gunshot tear through his stomach and then his chest. He should be bleeding.
Malcolm Fletcher stood above him, his voice muffled behind a small mask covering his mouth and nose.
'Do you know who I am, Detective?'
Bryson nodded then dry-heaved again.
'Then you know why I'm here.'
Bryson didn't answer. Fletcher took off the mask and tucked it inside his jacket pocket.
The elevator stopped. The doors slid open, the hallway dark.
Malcolm Fletcher flipped the emergency stop button. A hunting knife was gripped in his gloved hand.
Bryson felt a surge of panic and then, strangely, the feeling vanished behind an odd sense of calmness. He knew he should be scared but his body seemed completely unaware of the danger.
'If you're a good boy and tell the truth, Timmy, I'll let you go. But if you don't tell the truth, if I don't feel you're
